


And Left You Bruised

by philalethia



Series: Show and Noise [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Painplay, Riding Crops, Sadomasochism, Scratching, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Impact play is a little more complicated than Sherlock had probably initially thought, but they manage. Eventually. Or, John and Sherlock buy a new riding crop. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/749171">That One Last Tender Place (To Sink His Teeth In)</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Left You Bruised

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There is explicit description in this story of a person being hurt, and particularly spanked and beaten with a riding crop, for (consensual) sexual pleasure. There are also mentions of past knifeplay and bloodplay. If you think this may be distressing or triggering for you, I strongly advise you not to read.
> 
> Reading the previous fic in the series, [That One Last Tender Place (To Sink His Teeth In)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/749171), is recommended but not necessary.

John checked his mobile during a break in his ten-hour shift at the surgery and discovered ten texts from Sherlock, which was shockingly quite a bit under his average these days.

(John had over the last few weeks gained a new understanding of the term “blowing up my phone,” as Sherlock had taken to sending so many texts when John was out of the flat that John’s phone behaved oddly when he finally checked it, lagging and shutting itself off as though it had been somehow damaged by the barrage of messages.)

With a sigh that was distinctly fond to even his own ears, John scrolled to the first message and began to read.

 _There are a surprising number of different types of riding crops_. _SH_

_Length of the handle; size, shape, and material of the tip. SH_

_I measured mine for reference: total of 68 cm in length, handle itself is 63 cm long, tip is 5 cm long and 3.8 cm wide, made of leather. Will that do? SH_

_I think it was made to be used on a horse, though. Does that matter? SH_

_Stupid question. Ignore. Of course human skin is thinner. Also suspect you wouldn’t like where this one has been. Looking for alternatives. SH_

_Do you generally prefer ‘stingy’ or ‘thuddy’? SH_

_Interesting. It is apparently common to take pictures of one’s crop-induced welts and post them online for all to see. SH_

_Other sex wounds as well. SH_

_None so attractive as yours, of course. SH_

_Oh, John. You look so lovely when your skin is red and abused. When will you be back? I want to bite at your shoulder some more. SH_

John felt his face heating up and was glad that there was no one there to see him blushing at his flatmate’s perversions. How had he ever imagined that Sherlock was uninterested in sex? It seemed unthinkable now, when Sherlock was gagging for it more often than John, pawing at him and murmuring filth in his ear at all hours of the day—when there wasn’t a case on, of course.

John texted back: _Four more hours, you can manage. We’ll talk then. Please tell me you’re not thinking of posting photos of me online._

Then he returned his phone to his pocket and went back to work.

When his shift was finished, he had two new texts.

_Of course not, John, don’t be ridiculous. I’d likely murder anyone who saw you like that now. SH_

Then, sent at the precise moment that John’s shift had ended: _Come home now. My fingers in my arse don’t feel nearly as good as yours. SH_

*

From Sherlock’s deluge of texts, John knew to expect dozens of websites open on his computer—and it was _always_ John’s computer, these days, as though shagging John gave Sherlock even more unlimited access to all of John’s belongings—and a riding crop and tape measure sitting beside it.

He wasn’t, however, expecting the sheets of paper strewn about the sitting room amidst the crop, tape measure, and laptop. John gathered a stack and flipped through them—calculations, graphs, incomprehensible illustrations. If it weren’t for the way that Sherlock, standing in front of the fireplace in his pyjamas and silk dressing gown, practically puffed up his chest with pride while John observed them, John would think they were rubbish remnants of an old case.

The pride seemed to diminish a bit when John only said, “Sorry, is this supposed to mean something to me?”

Sherlock sighed, as though John’s ignorance was a terrible burden, then grabbed the computer from the desk and thrust it into John’s hands. “Research, John, _obvious_. My riding crop”—he nodded towards it—“is unsuitable for this endeavour—”

“Ah, that reminds me,” John said. “Where _has_ your riding crop been that I wouldn’t like?”

Sherlock looked shifty, lips pressing into a thin line and gaze flickering to somewhere beyond John’s left ear.

“Did you use it to solve a case?” John amended.

Again, Sherlock looked shifty. John could practically hear him weighing the consequences of deflecting versus just owning up to whatever he had done.

“Never mind,” John decided. “Never tell me what you did with it, yeah? Right. So what’s all this, then?”

“Research, John, as I just said. There are several variables to take into account when shopping for a new riding crop—length, material, size of the tip…. Didn’t you read my texts? I’ve already explained this.”

“Yes, well, give us idiots a chance to catch up, all right?” John snapped.

He cleared a space at the desk, where he then sat with his computer and began to click through the open tabs at the top of his browser window. All were product pages for various online shops, and most of the products were riding crops—although John noticed bondage gear and other fetish toys among them, which he filed away in his memory with a mental note to bring up with Sherlock later.

“Okay,” he said. “So, research?”

“Yes.” Sherlock scooped up a stack of papers and held them, one by one, out for John’s inspection, pointing to relevant sections as he spoke. “The length of the handle determines my position and where I am in relation to you. Material and size of the tip affects the sensation—type and degree of pain, that sort of thing. Take, for example, this one—” He rifled through the pages, and John decided that he really didn’t want to be lectured at right now.

“Make a spreadsheet,” he said firmly, “and email it to me. I’ll use it to help me decide.”

Sherlock’s lip turned down—at the suspicion that John wouldn’t actually use the spreadsheet, or in dissatisfaction that John would be making the final decision, John wasn’t sure which—but he nodded all the same.

“Now,” John continued, “you said something earlier about my fingers.”

*

Sherlock, it had turned out, loved a good fingerfucking. More than any other sexual act they’d tried thus far, in fact, which John—who had never shagged a man who wasn’t as partial to blowjobs as John himself was—accepted with a bit of bewilderment.

Sherlock particularly liked it long and slow, enough so that John always had to pause multiple times to relubricate his fingers or switch hands when one got tired. Tonight, both of John’s wrists were sore, his left trembling, and still Sherlock buried his face in the pillow and shoved his arse up like he couldn’t get enough.

“Just so you know,” John told him, “this hand will cramp up quite badly if this continues on for very much longer.”

The sound Sherlock made, muffled though it was by the pillow, was the satisfied moan of a man who had finally been granted what he’d been craving.

“Ah, that does it for you, does it?” John let himself move faster, until he was actually fucking Sherlock with his fingers rather than just massaging his prostate. He was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock raising his arse even more, his spine and back muscles shifting beneath his smooth, sweat-wet skin as he rocked into John’s thrusts.

“Shall I tell you about how sore I’ll be tomorrow?” John continued. “Do you want to hear how, during my shift at the clinic in the morning, I’ll be flexing my stiff, aching fingers and remembering how you let me bugger you with them until it hurt so badly I could hardly move?”

That did it. Sherlock hefted himself up on his knees so he could wank himself, and then it was over rather quickly.

He was an odd sort of sadist, John thought fondly. He rarely discriminated between John in erotic pain and John in _pain_ pain, and he seemed ambivalent about his own pain. After all, John suspected he wouldn’t be the only one feeling this tomorrow.

“Is it sentiment,” Sherlock began breathlessly, as he came down from his orgasm, “or the frankly exquisite combination of your sexual preferences with mine that makes sex with you so enjoyable?”

“Dunno. Probably both.”

John slid his fingers free and then helped Sherlock lower himself to the mattress, where he rolled onto his side and tugged greedily at John’s wrists until John obliged and lay beside him. They were close enough that John could feel Sherlock’s still-heavy breaths against his face, but far enough away that Sherlock had a clear view of his own hand coming to rest on John’s right thigh, thumb rubbing over the row of cuts he had put there weeks ago. They were mostly healed now, replaced by thin lines of new pink skin, although Sherlock seemed just as fascinated by them as he had when they were fresh and bleeding.

“So,” John prompted with a smile, “the sex is good, is it?”

Sherlock raised his head and gave John a dark, lusty look that filled John with the sudden urge to shove his fingers back in Sherlock’s open, wet hole and bugger him until he begged John to stop, sore and cramping wrists be damned.

He resisted the urge.

“I want it constantly,” Sherlock said. “You could have me on my back with my trousers around my ankles in front of all of Scotland Yard, and the only demand I would make of you is that you allow me to bury my teeth in your shoulder.”

It wasn’t true, of course, and really, John didn’t want it to be. A Sherlock who didn’t devote all of his mental faculties to cases and forget John at crime scenes wasn’t a Sherlock at all. But it was flattering that Sherlock’s orgasm had apparently been strong enough for him to say so.

“Good to know,” John said.

*

He received another barrage of texts at the clinic the following morning.

_Spreadsheet has been emailed. SH_

_Included is a Word document with additional notes, conclusions, and my top three suggestions. SH_

_Shall leave my research out in case you require it. SH_

_Also setting my credit card beside your computer. SH_

_For when you are prepared to order, obviously. SH_

_Money is not of concern. Do NOT let price affect your decision. SH_

_Could charge the purchase to Mycroft’s card if you’d rather. SH_

_Could be fun. He’d burn with envy. He’s not managed to keep a regular sex partner for years. SH_

On his way back to the flat, John answered: _I don’t want to know about your brother’s sex life, thanks_.

The response came seconds later: _No, indeed you do not. Dreadfully dull. SH_

When John arrived, he found the flat empty and dark; the only sound was the faint echo of Mrs Hudson’s wireless drifting upstairs from 221A. Was this Sherlock’s attempt to provide John with privacy while he reviewed Sherlock’s spreadsheet and made his decision? John wondered. Or had he just buggered off for a case and forgot to tell John?

As though on cue, John’s phone chimed with an incoming text.

_At Bart’s. Stomachs. Back by morning. Don’t wait up. SH_

Stomachs. John didn’t want to know, and swiftly put the issue out of his mind. He made himself dinner, then tea, and then sat down at the desk in front of his computer.

The spreadsheet was… baffling. Primarily because it was entirely numbers and John was pants at that sort of thing. Also, from what John could deduce with the help of Sherlock’s attached Word document, Sherlock had apparently assigned arbitrary values to things like degree and type of pain; as John could personally attest, one person’s excruciatingly stingy was another person’s mildly thuddy.

He closed the spreadsheet and did some research of his own, browsed reviews and visited company webpages, but in the end, he decided to defer to Sherlock. After all, Sherlock had apparently thought about the issue almost as carefully as he did cases, and Sherlock’s ability to solve cases was, of course, very, very impressive.

John placed the order: a 55-centimetre riding crop with a looped leather tip that was 6 centimetres wide, for just under £20.

Then he settled in the armchair to watch some telly before bed.

*

Sherlock was pleased the next morning, having apparently sussed out John’s decision from the confirmation email in John’s inbox. (And John wasn’t sure what it meant that he was no longer fazed by Sherlock snooping through his email.) “Excellent choice,” he said, rewarding John with a rare grin. “All other factors would indicate that it would produce the most intense degree of pain, but the wide tip will taper that by spreading the impact across a larger surface.”

“Yes,” John said, only half paying attention. “My thoughts exactly.”

Then the issue was dropped for the moment—or so John thought.

Not even a full day after John had placed the order, Sherlock said, as John was cleaning out the fridge (one week, John had declared, before he binned the ears on the bottom shelf, and it had been nearly two), “Do you have a safeword?”

John stepped away from the fridge, leaving the door to swing closed, and stared at Sherlock’s supine form on the sofa. “A safeword?” He hadn’t heard the term in years, since even before his time in the army, and he hadn’t expected to ever hear it from Sherlock’s mouth.

“Haven’t I managed yet to break you of your habit of repeating my words in an incredulous tone? Yes, John, a safeword. Surely you’re familiar with the concept.”

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t need a safeword. Playing at nonconsent is a hard limit, I’m afraid. If I want you to stop, Sherlock, believe me, you’ll know.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, then fell silent, staring up at the ceiling with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

John waited to see if Sherlock had any other questions or comments to offer, and when none came, he returned to cleaning the ears out of the fridge.

When John was brushing his teeth that night, Sherlock appeared suddenly in the open doorway, eyes wide and hair a mess, looking like he’d just had a breakthrough in an especially sensitive experiment.

“I’ll have to restrict my strokes with the riding crop to your buttocks, I presume? Too much potential for damage with other body parts—for an amateur, at least, which you’ll no doubt insist on thinking of me as, even though my coordination, aim, and spatial intelligence are far superior to a normal human’s.”

John stared, his tooth-brushing on pause for the moment while he processed this new development. “Sherlock, are—” His words were slurred to the point of being unintelligible, so he removed his toothbrush, spat into the sink, and tried again. “Have you been researching S&M?”

“Of course. I thought it prudent, what with your endless moaning about safety and precautions the last time we engaged in sexual activity that was mildly hazardous. This way, I know what precautions I need to take, you don’t have to waste time and energy explaining them all, and when the crop arrives, we can try it out immediately, instead of quibbling about the details for days on end.”

“I’d call letting you cut my skin with a razor blade a little more than ‘mildly hazardous,’” John sighed. “And we’re not trying out the riding crop immediately.”

Sherlock seemed taken aback, then offended, to hear this. “Why not?”

“Well,” John conceded, “I suppose _you_ can try it out whenever you’d like, but you’re not using it on me until you’ve practiced enough with it that I feel reasonably confident you won’t be whipping my bollocks or bruising my tailbone.”

The offense on Sherlock’s face deepened until he was nearly snarling at John in disgust. “I think I can manage wielding a three-ounce bit of plastic and leather without practicing like a child learning to read.”

John set his toothbrush beside the tap and summoned his most stern _do-not-fuck-with-me_ army-captain tone when he snapped, “I don’t give a toss what you think,” which shut Sherlock up immediately. John spared a moment to silently congratulate himself—nearly five years since he’d been discharged, and he still had it—before he continued. “Believe me, Sherlock, nothing kills the mood quite like a misaimed swat with a riding crop, and since it’s _my_ body you’ll be swatting, you’ll prepare however I tell you. Is that clear?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, then inclined his head.

“Good,” John said. “Then when the riding crop arrives, we’ll have a nice long talk about details and positions, and safety and precautions, and you will practice hitting a pillow with a target sellotaped to one end until your aim is _perfect_. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nodded again. All traces of disgust had finally left his expression and been replaced with calm, compliant understanding.

“Good.”

And that was that.

*

Nothing more was said on the subject for days, although John noticed random books on BDSM appearing around the flat—usually in places where John spent a good deal of time—and kink-themed websites being left open on John’s computer when he sat down to it.

Then John returned from Tesco one evening to find a long, thin cardboard box lying just in front of the doorway and a trail of packing peanuts leading to the armchair, where Sherlock was seated, waving a riding crop in the air as though testing the flexibility of the handle.

John went silently into the kitchen and put away the shopping before he acknowledged the delivery.

“So how is it?”

Sherlock was silent long enough that John thought he might be too engrossed in his own thoughts to take note of John’s question, or even John’s presence. Then Sherlock laid the crop across his thighs, clasped his hands beneath his chin, and said, “Nearly a full centimetre shorter than advertised, but otherwise adequate.”

Brows knit, he stared intently at the empty space in front of him and seemed to sink even deeper into his own massive, overworked mind. John wondered what he was thinking of—dimensions and calculations, or John stretched out in front of him, arse red and bruised?

“How do you want it?” Sherlock said suddenly.

John blinked. “Er. How do you mean?”

Sherlock turned and gifted John with a long _don’t-be-tedious_ look. “You said we would discuss positions after the crop arrived. Here it is. Where and how would you prefer to be positioned?”

Luckily, John had already given the issue some thought. A great deal of thought, in fact, and often in the shower. “My bed, on my stomach. Lying flat, preferably, although I suppose I could tolerate being bent over the edge if that’s easier for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes went distant, no doubt picturing the scene in startling detail. After nearly a full minute of silence, he said, “Show me.”

John did, bounding up the stairs and into his bedroom—not that he slept there much anymore, with Sherlock having apparently decided that John willingly sleeping alone meant John was upset with him, which always put Sherlock in a strop—and planting himself face-first in the centre of the mattress. Once there, he heard Sherlock circling the bed, and he turned his head to the left when Sherlock stopped there. He hadn’t brought the crop with him, John noticed, which he supposed was good. Less temptation, anyway.

“This room is farther from Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, cocking his head thoughtfully. “That’s why you chose it, yes? You anticipate this becoming quite loud. Are you especially vocal when you’re being beaten with a riding crop?”

John shrugged. He was more concerned about the sounds a riding crop made when it struck bare skin—which, if Mrs Hudson heard and misinterpreted, could lead to an awkward situation indeed—but Sherlock’s point was a good one as well.

Sherlock stared a few seconds longer. “Do you have a preference for where I stand?”

John shook his head. “Wherever you want. You can even sit if you’d rather.”

“Can you move closer to the edge, towards me?”

John sidled nearer to Sherlock, until he could let his arm hang over the edge of the mattress if he wanted. “Like this?”

Sherlock nodded, then ran a hand through John’s hair, scraping his nails along the scalp. “Is this acceptable to you?”

“Sure. You?”

Sherlock’s hand trailed past John’s nape and down the back of John’s jumper, nails raking along his spine. “I want to be able to touch you with ease.”

“All right. That’s fine.”

Sherlock’s fingers retraced their steps back up John’s spine, and John let his eyelids droop as he savoured the sensation.

He was disgruntled when it stopped a few seconds later, then confused when it was replaced by Sherlock climbing onto the bed with John, winding his long arms around John’s torso and manhandling him until John lay on his side with Sherlock against his chest, curling around John’s limbs like a greedy, clingy octopus.

“Er,” John said awkwardly, as Sherlock nuzzled his chest roughly, almost like he was trying to burrow into it. “All right?”

“What will happen, when you finally consent to having the crop used on you? Since I can’t have it _now_ ”—and there was more than a hint of a pout in his voice—“I want to be able to envision it as accurately as possible.”

“Well,” John answered, “um. A little foreplay first would be nice. Scratching, biting, rubbing at my bruises, you know. Things that you’re especially good at.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s limbs were unwinding enough that he could transfer his nuzzling to John’s right shoulder, where his jumper covered an assortment of faded bruises and bite marks. For the last week or so, Sherlock had left off creating new ones, apparently now content to merely fondle the old ones, as he was now, shoving his face into the general area while his fingers unerringly found what had been the biggest, darkest bruise of the lot and _pressed_.

John groaned quietly. It didn’t hurt any more, but Sherlock’s interest and enthusiasm were just as enjoyable. “Like that, yes. Then I’ll spread out here and have you spank me to warm me up before you switch to the riding crop.”

Sherlock bit at John’s shoulder. Although he got more jumper than skin, he didn’t seem disappointed. Again, it didn’t feel like much to John—certainly no pain—but the way Sherlock was writing against him, whining quietly as he tried to shove John’s jumper out of the way so he could get at his favourite spot, was just as exhilarating and intoxicating as a solid hit of pain and the subsequent rush.

“Speaking of. Do you want to try spanking?” John offered. He wasn’t as concerned about Sherlock hurting him that way. None of it was perfectly safe, of course, but it was easier to aim and judge your own strength when you were using only your own hand than something like a riding crop.

Sherlock shoved him away so he could stare into John’s face. His eyes were wide. “Yes,” he breathed. “Oh. Yes.”

John didn’t, as a general rule, like to be spanked. When he dabbled in impact play, he preferred it to be with a toy. Spanking—or, more specifically, the sound of bare skin hitting bare skin—tended to remind him of being a child, which wasn’t a mind-set he liked returning to. But he could tolerate it, even enjoy it sometimes, and it was a decent warm-up.

John took off his clothes, tossed them to the floor, and settled face-down at the edge of the mattress, this time with his legs folded under him, arse in the air.

“How?” Sherlock asked. “Fast, slow? Should I pause between each strike?”

“Yeah, start slow,” John told him. “I’ll let you know when you can go faster.”

Sherlock didn’t seem hesitant, standing beside the bed with one hand between John’s shoulder blades, the other taking aim. But when the first stroke came, it was just one step above an affectionate pat on the bum. John had to reign in the urge to giggle, and although his face was buried in the pillow, he could sense Sherlock’s chagrin, hear him huff softly in embarrassment.

The next one was more forceful, though still not especially confident, and John let out a quiet moan, wriggled his hips a bit, knowing Sherlock would take it for the encouragement it was meant to be.

Sherlock’s blows fell into a rhythm, slow but steady, with several seconds of anticipation between each one, and John could tell he was become more sure of himself.

“Faster,” John said, turning his face to the side; he had a feeling he would be gasping soon.

Sure enough, Sherlock was soon spanking him properly, blows raining down on John’s arse with barely a quarter of a second between them to recover. Each one was strong enough to drive John forward into the pillow and wrench a sharp, pained cry from his mouth.

Still, he couldn’t get entirely into it. He tried to shut that odd, discordant part of his brain off, tried to focus only on how it felt like his arse was on fire, until he felt pleasantly fuzzy from the pain.

Then, abruptly, Sherlock stopped, and John jerked back firmly into the moment. They were both panting, Sherlock more harshly than John, and John angled his neck so he could see Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock’s face was red, the hair at his temples stuck to his skin with sweat, and his eyes were bright, wild. He looked torn between climbing insistently on top of John and kneeling obediently at John’s feet. When John glanced lower, past Sherlock’s heaving chest, he saw Sherlock’s trousers were tented obscenely.

Exertion, adrenaline, and sadism, John thought with a shiver. Sherlock hadn’t had to work so much to hurt John before. Oh, the riding crop would be _brilliant_.

John sat up, slowly, wincing, and Sherlock’s interest visibly waned.

“You’re not….”

John wasn’t soft, exactly, but no, neither was he hard. It was probably baffling for Sherlock, who had seen John turned on enough by pain to leak a small puddle of precome on his own belly, but he didn’t know how to explain it. Nor did he particularly want to. Besides, he suspected he would be hard and leaking shortly anyway, if he had his way.

“That was fantastic,” he assured Sherlock, reaching for Sherlock’s zip. His arse burned as he scooted forward, and he didn’t even try to hold in his hiss—maybe even embellished a little, just to see Sherlock’s breath catch and his prick twitch in his trousers.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John groaned, and wasted no time shoving Sherlock’s trousers and pants down to his thighs and swallowing Sherlock’s cock until he gagged.

Sherlock babbled, cursed, and whimpered, and when he came, he was bent over John, spine curled in what had to be an uncomfortable position, so he could claw at John’s lower back, ravage a smooth unmarked patch of skin.

*

The spanking left no marks on John’s arse. In fact, it barely hurt at all the next day, which Sherlock was horribly put out by. For several hours, he huffed repeatedly and treated John to long, scathing scowls as though John was the source of everything wrong in the world.

John was more or less forced to sleep in Sherlock’s bed, after his own was taken over by a feather pillow that Sherlock bought and moulded to resemble (vaguely) John’s bottom. Just as John had demanded, Sherlock sellotaped a hand-drawn target where the pillow’s arse would be, and devoted a lot of his free time to beating it mercilessly with his new riding crop until every strike was perfectly on target.

A week later, the details and necessary precautions negotiated, they were ready.

*

John was surprised to find that, when he was nude on his bed, the riding crop lying on the mattress not two feet away, he really wasn’t as keen on the idea of foreplay as he had thought he would be.

Sherlock, however, was utterly dedicated to the task. He’d draped himself along John’s back in only his pants so he could suck bruises across John’s shoulder blades, while his nails dragged leisurely up and down John’s upper thighs. (He’d stopped trimming them as often as he used to—precisely so he could do this, John suspected—and it was a heady feeling, to know Sherlock had adjusted his personal grooming habits for John’s pleasure.)

“It’s all right,” John told him. “I don’t need very much, apparently.”

Sherlock hummed, gave John’s right shoulder one final, vicious bite—John cursed, then moaned at the lovely sharp after-ache—and pulled away. “No, you don’t,” he said, practically purring. “You’re aroused by just the thought, aren’t you? I can smell it on you.”

John groaned his agreement as Sherlock turned his attention to John’s bottom, fondling and raking his fingertips along the cheeks.

When Sherlock finally rose off the bed, John moved into position: flat on his stomach, head turned and right cheek pressed against the pillow so he could watch Sherlock divest himself of his last piece of clothing. Sherlock watched him back, staring at John’s body like it was something he needed very badly but hadn’t yet decided how to best enjoy.

John summoned his inner tart and wriggled his bum, arched into Sherlock’s warm hand when it stroked along his tailbone.

“Start slow,” John reminded him.

“Mm,” said Sherlock. He lifted his hand for the first strike.

It was better this time. In part because John knew what was coming after, that he had the sound and sensation of a crop to look forward to, but also because every swift _smack_ of Sherlock’s palm against his skin brought with it the memory of Sherlock’s face after the last time, red and sweaty and desperately turned on.

Soon enough, though, the shock of Sherlock’s bare hand beating down on the sensitive skin of his arse began to fade, and the pain began to plateau, then fade as well beneath the rush of endorphins.

“Okay,” John said, and the slow, steady blows stopped instantly. “Give me a minute, and then the riding crop.”

His eyes had closed at some point, and although he considered opening them, curious what Sherlock looked like now, he didn’t. He rubbed his cheek against the pillow and moaned softly as Sherlock ran one finger very, very gently along the warm, dully aching flesh of John’s bottom. After a long moment of exploration, the hand dipped lower, cupping John’s testicles and—when John’s thighs spread eagerly—teasing the base of John’s cock.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, sounding surprised to find John partially hard, although pleasantly so. “John.”

“Okay,” John told him. “Now the crop, but just once. One strike.”

The mattress shifted as Sherlock leaned over John to grab the riding crop. It was nice. John normally didn’t care much for anticipation, the uncertainty of what his partner was doing or when a touch would come, but this was pleasant, a sweet sort of tease.

Then came the familiar, thrilling sound of a crop arcing through the air and striking skin. It was a second or two before John actually felt the pain, but when he did, it was heavenly: sharp, almost too much, and then like ripples in water, the blow seemed to echo along his skin, the pain radiating throughout the area until nearly his whole arse throbbed with it.

John waited until the ripples of hurt had calmed and then whispered, “Again.”

The second seemed lighter, either because Sherlock had eased up or because John knew now exactly when it was coming, but it felt good all the same. He flexed his buttocks, savouring how the movement of his muscles brought the pain into sharp, sharp focus before he relaxed and let it fade again. John was panting, could hear Sherlock panting as well. It never ceased to surprise him, how good something like this could feel. He wondered if it surprised Sherlock as well.

“Little harder this time,” he said, and Sherlock let out a soft, awed “oh” before he obeyed.

Then there was the _zing_ of the riding crop, and the pain sparked instantly. Too much, this time, John actually cringed away from it, but even that was good in its own way. It drove his cock into the duvet, lighting enough pleasure to take the worst of the edge off the sting. He thrust his hips again, relished the blissful blend of friction and burn.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, still sounding awed. John wondered what he looked like, what Sherlock was feeling, seeing marks bloom on John’s arse and knowing he had put them there.

“Two now,” John told him, “but lighter, one right after the other.”

Too light, this time. Sherlock swung the crop so weakly that it didn’t even make its usual sound. John turned his face into the pillow, wanting to laugh.

 _Oh, bugger it_ , he decided, then turned his head back. “Right, just—have at it. Hurt me.”

Sherlock didn’t need any further encouragement. The crop came down on John’s arse intermittently at first, several seconds between strokes, and then—when John only moaned and writhed through the pain—sped up until John hardly had a moment to process the sting of one strike before another came and added to it.

In no time, it seemed, John’s arse felt like nothing but a vicious tangle of pain. The skin burned like it was being split under the crop’s tip, and the sensation veered close to excruciating, just as John began to feel hazy and floaty.

“Stop,” he said, and the blows stopped immediately. John lay still as he willed himself back down from his endorphin-and-neurochemical high, felt the fresh marks on his arse throb. His throat was dry. He swallowed thickly, wet his lips, then felt the hesitant touch of Sherlock’s hand on his back, a feather-light kiss to his bicep.

John shook away the last of his daze and rolled to his back, which was a mistake. It brought his arse in contact with the duvet and made him feel for a second that his skin was literally on fire, blistering. Then he opened his eyes, caught sight of Sherlock, and ceased to care.

Sherlock looked… _wrecked_. He’d gone to his knees, and his eyes were bright and riveted on John’s prick, which John abruptly realised was very hard indeed.

“All right?” John asked, at nearly the same time that Sherlock declared, “I want to sit on it.”

John blinked. “Er.”

“It’s— I want it very, very badly, John.”

So did John, now. Really, John could think of nothing he wanted more than Sherlock looking awed and wrecked as he bounced on John’s cock—but he also knew it was a bad idea. Sherlock might have been a whore for a good fingerfucking, but that didn’t mean he’d enjoy being buggered by John’s prick, and now was not a good time to try.

“Can I?”

“Not quite,” John said. He reached for Sherlock, coaxed him onto the bed. The way Sherlock swallowed and wet his lips said he knew exactly what John was offering him instead.

However good buggering Sherlock might be, John decided, it had nothing on Sherlock sucking down John’s cock like a man starved for it, moaning when John did and looking positively worshipful when John dragged one of Sherlock’s hands beneath him, to his arse, and let Sherlock hurt him. When John came, Sherlock’s eyes went half-lidded, and he whimpered like he’d never tasted anything so good.

The sight gave John an idea, reminded him of a thought he’d had weeks ago.

“Come here,” he murmured. “Your turn.”

“Aftercare,” Sherlock said, shaking his head with a pout. “You have wounds that need cleaned and treated, and how many times have you lectured me about—”

“Yes,” John said. “But I’d rather you come on them before all that.”

And although ejaculate on fresh welts was horribly unhygienic and burned considerably worse than John had anticipated, he thought it was worth it, if only for the way Sherlock moaned his name as he came, long and low and with a weak, throaty “oh” on the end like he was the one in pain, not John.

*

John woke the next morning hungry, with a desperate need to piss, and in an extraordinary amount of pain. He got out of bed as carefully as possible, though every movement was still like raking his bum over hot coals. Sherlock slept on, still as a corpse, although John knew it was only a matter of time before he woke as well; Sherlock only seemed capable of tolerating a decent night’s sleep in a bed if he had someone beside him, anchoring him.

John threw on a shirt, then debated putting on pants or going without. In the end, he dug a pair of very loose shorts from his wardrobe and decided that those would suffice, in case Mrs Hudson decided to pop up for a chat.

He used the loo and then stood with his back to the mirror, staring over his shoulder as he eased the shorts back down to his knees. His arse looked… well, like he’d been beaten with a riding crop: long, angry-red welts scattered about the meatiest parts of his arse cheeks and a few fat, purplish bruises nearer to his hips. Sherlock, he thought, would be very pleased with the sight. He’d probably be quite keen to take photographs as well.

After John had taken a paracetamol and put the kettle on, he heard the floorboards groan quietly as Sherlock stirred upstairs, followed by Sherlock’s scuffling footsteps on the stairs and approaching the kitchen.

“Come back to bed.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, his speech faintly slurred, and John turned from rummaging for jam in the fridge to find Sherlock looking like the epitome of grumpy sleepiness: wrapped in a sheet, his hair horribly matted aside from a few random curls plastered to his forehead, and the shadow of stubble framing a rather impressive pout.

“I’m starving,” John said. “I’m making toast. Do you want any?”

Sherlock’s pout deepened, and his eyes took on a wide, puppy-like appearance.

“No,” John told him firmly. He returned to the task of sorting through takeaway containers and plastic containers full of unidentifiable contents, “NOT BODY PARTS” written on the lids in Sherlock’s nearly unreadable scrawl, until he found the jam, which he carried with him to the toaster. “You can sit down and eat with me, or you can bugger off back to bed. Up to you.”

John didn’t really expect him to bugger off back to bed, but neither did he expect Sherlock to shuffle closer, until he stood immediately behind John, and then envelop John in his sheet, tugging him backward until he could hook his chin over John’s shoulder. But that was precisely what Sherlock did, and for a moment John could only blink in surprise and let himself be gathered up in Sherlock’s bedsheet cocoon.

It was… well, a fairly non-Sherlock-like show of affection, but his intentions became much clearer when John felt one of Sherlock’s hands hiking up a leg of his shorts and pawing at John’s arse. His long, greedy fingers found a particularly painful welt immediately, and John hissed but stayed still. Sherlock prodded at the wound until the pain was almost unbearable and John had to jerk away.

Sherlock hummed happily.

“Proud of yourself, are you, you sadistic prat?” John asked, though he didn’t even bother to mask the fondness in his tone.

“Yes, quite,” Sherlock answered, and then cheerfully hurt him again.


End file.
